Chapter 56 Sebastian
SEBASTIAN
All the noise around me fades as I jump into my car. My hands are steady as I start it. Everything inside me locks into a single, ruthless line of purpose.
Find Ivy.
I throw the phone onto the passenger seat and reverse out of the parking spot so fast the tires bark. The city blurs as I cut through traffic like the rules don’t apply to me anymore.
Right now, they don’t.
Ivy is missing. And I’m done being careful.
I call 911.
It rings once before the dispatcher answers. “911, what’s your emergency?”
“My girlfriend has been taken,” I say, my voice flat and controlled.
My girlfriend. The word echoes. It took me all this time to define us.
“I have reason to believe the man who took her has a history of stalking and kidnapping. I’m en route to her last known location now. I need officers dispatched immediately.”
There’s a pause before she says, “Sir, what’s your name?”
“Sebastian Locke. I can provide the address. Her name is Ivy Hart. Last known location is her father’s house.
She was supposed to have lunch with her dad, but he was delayed.
She stopped answering calls. Her driver is unreachable.
Then I received a phone call from a man named Silas Reeve.
” I repeat his chilling words as I speed through the city.
The operator’s tone sharpens. “Okay, Mr. Locke. I need you to slow down and—”
“I’m driving the speed limit,” I lie, eyes locked on the road as I cut around a slow-moving SUV.
“That’s not what I meant.” She pauses a moment. “Are you armed?”
“No.”
It’s the truth. But that doesn’t make me any less dangerous.
“Give me her address.”
I rattle it off, cursing as I hit a red light.
“Are you alone?”
“Yes.”
“Officers are being dispatched to the residence now. Stay outside until they arrive.”
“I understand,” I say.
I end the call.
I do understand... but I’m going in anyway.
My phone is already in my hand again, fingers moving without hesitation.
Elliott answers on the first ring, like he hasn’t put his phone down since he left my office. “What’s up, Sebastian?”
“I got a call from Silas,” I say. “He has Ivy.”
The words echo even after I say them.
Elliott’s inhale is quiet but immediate—like a man who hates being right. “Where are you?”
“En route to her father’s house.”
“Don’t go in alone.”
“I’m not waiting.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Elliott says, “I’m pulling every address tied to the Reeves family—rentals, LLC holdings, vacation properties, storage units. You’ll have it in two minutes.”
“I need it in one.”
“You’ll have it in two,” he snaps, all professionalism stripped down to steel. “And listen to me, Sebastian. If he called you, he wants you moving. He wants you to be predictable. Emotional.”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel until my knuckles blanch. “Too late,” I say.
Elliott doesn’t argue. “Text me your location.”
I hang up and do it. I don’t like leaving a trail, but this isn’t about my comfort. This is about Ivy’s safety.
I call Ivy’s driver again. It goes straight to voicemail.
My jaw locks.
I call Ivy’s father. He answers too fast, voice already tense. “Sebastian? What’s going on?”
“I’m on my way,” I say. “Police are being dispatched. Stay outside. Do not go into the house.”
“I’m eight minutes away—”
“Stop,” I cut in. “Pull over somewhere visible. Wait for the police. She has a stalker. He’s not stable.”
There’s a sharp exhale.
Then, carefully, he asks, “Who is this man?”
“Silas Reeves.”
“I know him. Well, I know of him.”
“Then listen to me. I’ll tell you when Ivy is safe,” I say.
“Sebastian—”
“I’m not asking,” I snap. “I’m telling you. Do not go inside.” I end the call before he can argue.
If he gets himself hurt, that’s two people bleeding because I was too slow.
The closer I get, the more the world narrows to street signs. Turns. The time changing on my clock. Five minutes becomes three.
And the last stretch is the worst because my brain starts doing what it does best—building the most likely scenario.
He grabbed her when she was alone. Either when she arrived or while she was inside. He may still have her there, but I doubt it. He’d want to leave with her, knowing I’d be coming here.
My tires screech as I pull into the driveway of her father’s house and park crooked, barely braking before I’m out of the car.
The house looks normal. Peaceful. The front door is closed.
I move fast, scanning the perimeter. I don’t hear or see anything.
Something draws me to the patio. I notice the lid isn’t fully closed.
I try the door, sweat sliding down my spine.
It opens.
I step inside, eyes darting around. Take-out containers sit open on the counter, dumplings going cold. The kitchen smells like ginger and sesame oil and something sharper beneath it—her fear.
I spot Ivy’s phone on the counter.
My blood goes from cold to violent in half a second. She wouldn’t leave without it.
I should wait for the police.
But I can’t.
I need to find her.
I move through the room like I’m hunting, my eyes taking inventory.
Then I notice a scuff mark on the floor.
I silently move through the house, my ears straining for any noise. But it’s silent.
I inhale slowly, forcing my lungs to work.
Then I catch a glint of silver on the floor by the door between the house and garage.
I pick up the earring, my fingers careful, like touching it will break whatever hope is still inside me.
A sound hits the air. My entire body goes still—until I realize it’s the refrigerator.
Swallowing hard, I return to the kitchen. Heading to the knife block on the counter, I pull one free.
I look down at her phone. My throat tightens so hard it hurts.
I swallow the fear and do the only thing that matters. I hit Find My iPhone.
I type her passcode without thinking. I know it because I know my girl. I’ve seen her type it, knowing it was my birthday. Because she’s as obsessed with me as I am with her.
The map loads.
For one glorious second, my chest loosens.
No location found.
“No,” I whisper, the word raw.
My phone buzzes with a text. I grab it, my pulse racing.
Elliott: Possible locations:
Reeves Family Holdings (most likely)
Maple Ridge Rental (prior incident)
Storage Unit (LLC)
Lakehouse (inactive utilities)
Workshop behind Reeve Farms (isolated)
My eyes lift automatically to the kitchen window, staring at the tree line beyond the yard.
If he didn’t go far… then Ivy is nearby.
I step outside, close the door behind me, and call 911 again. “This is Sebastian Locke,” I say. “I’m at the residence. There are signs of struggle. I found her phone and a personal item. She’s not here.”
“I told you not to go inside,” the dispatcher sounds annoyed. “Officers are en route.”
“Good,” I say. “Keep them coming here. This is still the primary scene.”
There’s a brief pause. “Understood, sir. You’re not supposed to be—”
I end the call before the dispatcher finishes speaking.
The police need to secure what’s already been touched. I need to find where she went.
My phone is already in my hand again as I move toward the car, calling Drew.
“I need your help,” I say the second he answers. “Ivy’s missing.”
Silence. Then the scrape of a chair and the distant clack of keys. “Tell me what you need.”
I slide inside my car, toss the knife on the passenger seat, and start it. The engine turns over, low and steady beneath my hands.
I forward Elliott’s list of locations as I drum my hands on the steering wheel, my pulse finally starting to edge into something dangerous.
“Run them,” I say. “Fast. I need anything—ownership history, structures, access points.”
“Already doing it,” Drew replies, his voice shifting into that focused register he gets when something matters. “Give me a minute.”
I sit there, staring blankly out the windshield.
“Okay,” Drew says finally. “Reeve Farms is the anchor. Family land. Old money. Multiple outbuildings not listed as residences.”
My spine straightens.
“There’s a workshop behind the main property,” he continues. “Not tied to utilities. No recent permits. Easy to access if you know it’s there—but invisible if you don’t.”
“Isolated,” I murmur.
“Yeah,” Drew agrees. “And private. If I were trying to keep someone contained without drawing attention, that’s where I’d go first.” His fingers clack against the keys. “I’m sending it to you now.”
I stare at my phone, impatiently waiting.
When it finally comes through, I study what Drew sent me.
The workshop behind Reeve Farms fits too well. It’s familiar. Quiet. Shielded by land that’s been in his family for generations. A place no one goes unless they know it’s there.
That’s it. It has to be.
“Thanks, Drew.” I hang up and rip out of her driveway, heading to the farm.
The entire drive there, my jaw clenches, pissed that I let him get to her. The fear of him hurting her is a real, persistent ache beneath my ribs.
After what feels like forever, I make the turn. The gravel road crunches beneath my tires as I kill the headlights and coast the last stretch. The building appears out of the dark like a low-slung shadow, lights glowing faintly inside.
My pulse ticks faster. Lights on means occupancy.
If he’s still here, I need him unaware. If he’s not, I need to know before he does.
I pull my car along the shadows of the tree line, then cut the engine and step out, every sense tuned sharp enough to hurt.
I make my way toward the building without a sound, tracking shadows, listening for anything out of place.
My footsteps are silent as I stop in front of the door, my hand on the cold, metal handle. I turn it, expecting it to be locked.
It’s not.
I push inside. The workshop is quiet. The air smells like oil and dust. The lights hum overhead, casting long shadows across wooden floors.
“Ivy,” I say quietly.
No response.
I move fast and methodically, searching the shadows. The office nook. The back room.
Empty.
No overturned furniture. No marks on the floor. No sign of a struggle.
I stop in the center of the room and turn slowly, scanning again as if repetition might conjure something I missed.
But there’s nothing.
Shit.
My chest tightens.
This was the logical choice. The smart one. The place that made sense.
I chose it because I understand men like Silas. Because I know how they think. I trusted that knowledge.
And I was wrong.
The realization lands cold and absolute.
The room doesn’t echo with violence. It doesn’t offer proof, comfort, or even rage. It just exists.
This is what failure feels like. A quiet, devastating knot of certainty pits low in my stomach.
My hands curl into fists as I try not to crumble into pieces.
As hard as I try to fight it, my body wins out. I start to shake.
I let her down.
I stand there longer than I should, my breath shallow, my mind doing what it’s never been allowed to do before—imagining the possibility that I misjudged him entirely.
My chest tightens. I sent myself in the wrong direction.
I close my eyes, trying to regroup. Every second I spend here is a second she’s somewhere else. Alone. Terrified.
I swallow hard.
“No,” I mutter out loud. “You don’t get to break. Not here. Not now.”
Breaking won’t find her.
I force my breathing to steady.
Where else would he take her?
He wants to keep me unsettled. To keep me guessing.
My jaw tightens. This wasn’t a destination. It was a misdirection.
Think, Sebastian.
Where would he take her?